


The Weather in Dalston

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:50:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A familiar Black Cloud settles over Howard, following his encounter with the world of advertising. Vince and he begin to face the reality of living with Howard's moods, and both their feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weather in Dalston

Howard widened his eyes and stared as he entered the Nabootique, half afraid that, if he so much as blinked, it might all disappear, turning out to be just another part of his so-called vivid imagination. But the image held and he breathed in the heavy, familiar scent of incense and, faintly under that, marijuana. Adding in the scent of Vince's hairspray--recently sprayed from the smell of it--and it was the scent of home. 

* * *

Later, lying in bed, he could only vaguely remember telling Vince and Naboo and Bollo half-truths about his disappointing foray into the world of acting. He could remember the shame of having his friends see the depths to which he had fallen. But they hadn't seen how low he'd gone. The true bottom had hit only after the commercial had filmed, and well before it had aired, and he couldn't yet bring himself to share that story with Vince, much less the other two jackasses with whom he lived; He had a sneaking suspicion that either Naboo or Bollo would claim to have won a bet: just how long before Howard Moon finally cracked?

On his return, he took some comfort in finding that Vince had also taken hold of the short end of life's stick. But Vince was Vince, and he always could turn frowns upside down, spin defeat into victory, make lemons into a lemon and satsuma fight... Vince put on three inch stacked heels, looked failure in the eye, and offered it suggestions for a better root booster. Vince was indomitable; like Scarlette O Hara, down to the frock made out of curtains.

And that would make him a low-rent Rhett Butler, not giving a damn as the world burned around him.

But did he give a damn?

He lay awake and listened carefully as Vince went through the familiar motions of getting ready for bed. Vince crept under the covers quietly, and within moments, Vince was breathing as he did while asleep, with just the slightest, quietest snore. 

Worried Vince might hear him and wake, Howard waited until he heard Vince begin to quietly mutter to himself-- something he did almost every night. They were always words Howard couldn't quite make out, and he'd learnt to ignore them, except for those rare times he heard Vince mumble, 'oward' before quieting down. 

Finally, sure Vince was out for the night, Howard got up and went to the loo, where he'd stowed his small kit. The zip seemed painfully loud, as did the faucet as he filled up a cup with water. It was Vince's cup, and Vince had drawn something that might've been a three legged bird on it in black, permanent ink. Howard traced the bird figure's outline with his thumb, then told himself sternly to stop procrastinating.

One bluey, one of the tiny white ones that went down easy, and last of all, one of the large, white capsules that were always a bit hard to choke down. He double-checked the dosage before taking them, as he'd done every day since he'd been released from hospital, more out of habit than any real worry that he'd get it wrong. They went down with two gulps of water, and he watched in the mirror as he swallowed them, thinking that it'd be fitting if he, like Alice, were to suddenly grow ten feet tall or, more likely, shrink down to nothing whilst Vince slept. Would Vince just shrug and move on? He knew he wasn't irreplaceable. Would Vince notice if Naboo hired another mustacheod Northerner to fill his plimsoles?

At the dispensary door, no one could hope to take his place. There was only one person per name and each of them also had a number, just to be doubly sure. He'd taken to keeping his eyes front and center, hoping to avoid being drawn into small talk. 

At the front, he'd hold out his arm so the nurse could see his bracelet. She was careful not to touch him after the first time, when he'd been startled and pulled his arm back as if burnt. He hadn't the energy to say, "Don't touch me" as tersely as he was wont to do outside, but she'd nodded that first night and smiled at him and, since that first time until he left, she'd always let him turn the bracelet the right way so she could read his full name and number, after which she'd hand him a small paper cup into which she'd count out the pills. Another, larger paper cup would have water in it, and she'd watch as he swallowed them down. The cups were thin and waxy, and he could feel the water through the paper.

By day's end, all the floor staff knew how he felt about being manhandled. And he knew how they felt about his remaining in his bed. The sooner he was up and about and participating in group therapy, the sooner he'd be released.

He found he was in no hurry, and, aside from the requirements of food, pills, and the morning blood pressure check, he'd kept to his room for the first four days. He supposed it was around then that the pills began to take effect, as he began to feel restless and eventually ventured out into the lounge with the Telly and a small shelf of books and board games.

Now he was home again, he knew that doling out the meds himself was a privilege he'd earned.

He kept that in mind when he went directly from his release to the chemists and left with a bag with three brown, plastic bottles filled with things that, when taken in sufficient quantity, might suppress his breathing, or shut down his liver, or put him in a coma, according to the papers that accompanied each bottle. He wasn't entirely sure what would happen if he took them all at once. But he wouldn't.

Coming home, he'd assumed the events of the last two weeks were etched onto his visage, only Vince had seen nothing different in him, and had thought nothing of mocking "the face of excess wind." 

He'd once thought the eyes were windows into the Soul. He could look into Vince's eyes and see endless, strange visions--things that seemed too deep for a shiny little man--however vibrant--to contain. But perhaps Vince was right and his own eyes were too beady to reveal anything at all, though upon seeing Vince again, he'd been sure they'd welled up a little with unshed tears.

* * *

It took only days for he and Vince to settle into old rhythms and older banter. He found it fairly easy to slip into the patter of their double-act. He even noticed that the hard, mocking edge to it had gone, since their time apart, but he wasn't sure if it was in response to some change Vince perceived in him, or if it was more simply that the time apart had softened the friction that had developed between them. It hadn't always been there, but as the years went by, it had been like a bit of grit between them that had grown more and more irritating.

He'd tried to tell Vince about it once, not long before going in hospital to see if Vince felt it, too. Only Vince had said, "Oi, Howard, that's how a clam makes a pearl!" And they'd ended up arguing about whether it was a clam or, as Howard said, an oyster that made baubles out of dirt.

"It's 'Happy as a clam,' little man. Surely you've heard that."

"Clams ain't happy, 'oward. Why would anyone say they were? 'Ave you seen a clam? Giant ones are alright. They got big, blue wobbly lips. But they're endangered, so I don't think they're doing any celebrating."

"Been looking at my National Geographics again?"

"The pictures ain't horrible. An' someone keeps leavin' 'em in the loo."

"And I suppose now you've read one article, you're an authority on bottom dwellers."

Vince sniggered. "Bottom dwellers."

From there, a crimp ensued.

Oyster, oyster, bothered by a bit of sand  
Oyster, oyster, in an underwater band  
Happy as a clam ain't  
Slicker than a clam taint  
Nacre covers up the grit  
Soon it's got a pearl in it  
String the balls up  
Give it to yer mum  
String the balls up  
Give it to yer son.

"Shove it up yer bum," Vince added, beginning to giggle, clutching at his belly and turning a bit pink in the cheeks. 

Howard didn't see it was that funny but it brought tears to his eyes to see Vince lose that veneer of cool and laugh like he didn't need an audience of sychofants or the coolest people in Camden. It was just them and their words, and Howard realised that he was wrong to ever think they should share them.

Vince finally quit humming, "bumming bottom dwellers" long enough to agree that it was probably oysters who produced pearls, but he decided an experiment was in order, and told Howard they'd need to get some clams and oysters in a tank in the shop. "An' I'll have you talk to 'em about jazz and bookmarks till they get well irritable. We'll see who has a pearl then! Reckon you talking at 'em, we'll have them shitting out diamonds."

He let Vince have the last word with that, as he couldn't think of a snappy comeback. Something about pearls before swine came to him later, well after they'd closed up shop and, by then, Vince had gone out to a club and couldn't appreciate his trademark sharp wit. And Howard realised Vince never got his larger point, which was perhaps just as well.

* * *

One of the pills gave him the sleepies, so he took it at night. He fell into bed and slept through till morning and past his usual wake up time. When he awoke, he found that Vince had left him a plate of cold, buttered toast and a cold cup of tea, with a note. "Was warm when I made it. Couldn't get yer fat arse outta bed. xx Vince."

He got dressed quickly, ate the toast and drank the tea, and swallowed down his morning pills with a heavy sigh. He'd need an alarum clock, as the pills made him sleep more deeply than before.

Stationary Village being his primary concern, Howard went directly to the shop's counter with some trepidation. He'd been too caught up in the homecoming to have noticed it a day earlier, which was to his advantage, as, had he seen it then, he may well have ruined his reputation and cried openly.

It looked like Tokyo after Godzilla--or, more to the point, like New York City after King Kong. Bollo had clearly had a thumbless hand in undoing his careful work, and Howard looked up to glare at the gorilla, but Vince was the only one there, so he glared at him in his stead. "How could you, Sir."

Vince looked improperly chastened and shrugged. "Wasn't me that done it."

Howard sighed deeply. It was a shambles. His small corner, a place of peace and dignity, upended like so much rubbish.

"Might be time to start fresh, Howard. I hear the world's gone digital."

"Heresy, Little Man. There will always be a place for a quality number two."

"Yeah, in the loo with the toilet roll." Vince laughed, and hand over his mouth did not do much to muffle it.

Howard was too nonplussed to speak. He expected such disrespect from Naboo and Bollo, but to hear it from Vince was just too much. Ignoring him, Howard set about locating his supplies. He had a world to rebuild.

 

* * *

"Everything has its place."

"Yes, you've said that before, when you first came here. You seemed quite distraught about it."

Howard shut his eyes and shook his head. "Don't remember that."

"That's all right." The doctor's voice was always mild and soft, no matter how loud Howard sometimes shouted. "Why don't you tell me what you mean by that now. Is that something you still believe--that everything has its place?"

Howard took a sip of water, stalling. "Suppose I do, yeah."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you have a place?"

Howard scowled. "Well, I'm not a thing, am I?"

"Pardon. I meant--"

"I bloody well know what you meant, Sir. And no, I do not have a place. If I had one, I wouldn't be here now, would I? I don't fit. Never have. Change the subject."

The doctor nodded, looking placid, still, always bloody unmoved by Howard's bitter outbursts. None of Howard's jibes landed. None of his beady-eyed glares made the man give up and leave. The man had no feathers to ruffle, and Howard was very much at his mercy. 

The room was bland and grey, the walls bare but for a couple of reproduction travel posters. One said "Cote de Azur." Another featured a Zeppelin flying over a red mountain range. It said, "Lighter than Air." In small frames by the desk were the doctor's degrees and certificates.

They had twenty minutes left. "What would you like to talk about?"

Howard wanted to say 'nothing,' but he'd tried that and the silence was even worse than this charade of 'therapy.' And he knew staying close-mouthed counted against him. He'd be written up as uncooperative. "I'm worried about returning home." He admitted, finally. "I live--lived-- in a flat with my mate."

"Vincent Black."

Howard nodded, wondering what he'd been thinking when he changed the name.

"When you came here, you said you lived with Mr. Black and his brother, the magician, and a talking gorilla."

"Must've been confused," Howard shrugged and brought his left hand up to grip his right wrist, turning the band there in circles. Even with a loose grip, it could dig into his skin enough to do the trick. "Black's brother--the berk who owns the building--called himself a shaman." Howard paused, going over the rational explanation he'd concocted when he realized the truth might leave him locked away forever with the other Coconutters who claimed to fly to other planets and fight Yetis. "He calls himself the Great Nantini. He worked a booth at fairs and then at the zoo, telling fortunes and separating wazzocks from their money."

"And Bollo?"

Howard frowned. "Bollo's his pet monkey." He made a gesture to indicate that Bollo was the size of an organ grinder's sidekick.

"And the monkey talks to you, sometimes?"

Howard rolled his eyes, recognizing a leading question when he heard one. "Right, Sir. You know how monkeys are. They chitter and chatter and throw their shit around." Deep inside, Howard took some pleasure in describing Bollo this way. "I do sometimes talk to him, as you do a pet cat."

The doctor smiled, though he couldn't even allowed to share the joke. "Sounds quite messy, living with a monkey."

"'S not so bad. Worked in a zoo before. That's where I met the shaman. One grows accustomed to being in a cage surrounded by the smell of shit. Could come and go as I pleased, then."

"As you could now, Howard. Your period of formal confinement under the Mental Health Act was over after two days. You've been here almost two weeks." The doctor peered at his chart, tapping it with his blue biro. "You are responding well to the medication?"

Howard wasn't sure if that was a statement or a query. When the doctor said nothing, he decided it was a question. "Yes. It's fine."

"Any adverse effects since we adjusted the dosage?"

"I'm a bit... tired."

"That should be temporary, though if it persists, we can adjust the dosage again, though I think for now we'll try splitting it in half. You'll take. Half in the morning and half in the evening."

"But I can leave?"

The doctor huffed out a breath and closed his chart. "You may leave at any time you choose, though we strongly recommend you continue to seek outpatient care, and we can recommend treatment centres in your area. Before you leave, I have some papers for you to fill out, including your emergency plan. As much as we've enjoyed getting to know you, we really don't want to see you here again."

Howard glanced at the closed office door, then out the window that overlooked the hospital grounds. The idea of going out there was fraught with problems, and, like any caged creature, he'd become accustomed to the regimented life inside. Even the windows that wouldn't open seemed designed to keep the world at bay, though he knew they were locked to keep blokes like him from jumping out them.

 

* * *

He'd never made it as far as Denmark. When he phoned Jurgen Haabermaaster, he was given directions to the Waterloo Studios in Central London, where he was made to dress up in a garish crab costume. 

He still had visions of Sammy's victims in his head--blue face-paint spattered with red blood and red-stained white tennis vests. He wondered how they'd cleaned that up. Had someone phoned the police? And who would describe the alcoholic crab was the one that tore it to pieces? 

Howard had been too busy planning his exit to care at that point. His bag was packed. He was ready for his new life.

Only the studio was a disappointment--just a large room with cameras that looked far less exotic than the ones he'd seen Haabermaaster stand behind. The AD told him to crab walk in front of a green screen, while they adjusted the lights.

The costume itched and he tried to ignore it. He read his lines, only to be told, "Let's try that again. Mr. Moon, remember. You're a crab what's been swallowed. This ain't Shakespeare." 

Howard did his lines again. And again. After the second time, Haabermaaster himself spoke all of three words to him. "Yes, goot. Again."

Some git named Nigel Cohen was to complete the advert with animation, which Howard was told would take hours. But the acting job was short and over by nightfall, at which point the AD handed him a cheque.

It was more than he expected, but he considered it included well-earned hazard pay, given what he'd gone through to get cast. Trouble was, with the money in hand, he was left at loose ends. 

Going back to Dalston seemed the thing to do, but instead of getting on the train, he found himself stopping in Boots. He wandered around, not sure what had brought him there. But then he saw the mailing envelopes and biros, neatly displayed in a revolving tray. He also found a pair of scissors near the nail files. He bought postage as well. He sat on the kerb outside the shop. He addressed the envelope to the Nabootique, using big, block letters. He put that down as the return address as well, this time imitating Vince's handwriting as best he could. Then he got out his wallet. He cut up all the cards, save his license. He signed his new paycheque over to Vince and then put the cheque and his license into the envelope. Then he then sealed it. Vince knew where he kept his papers. A copy of his will was inside. Another copy was filed with his solicitor. He'd done it whilst at Uni when he first realised Vince would need his savings. And he had been saving diligently. 

Howard Moon was a Man of Action and he was taking action, yes Sir. 

There would be no skulking home to Dalston with his shoulders slumped. He'd done that one time too many, thank you very much. And there was Vince to think of. The little man might mock him now and again, but he looked up to Howard, which meant he'd let not only himself but Vince down as well. It was only a matter of time before Vince got another case of wanderlust and left him in search of something better.

Howard slipped the envelope in the postal box.

* * *

"Howard. Howard. How-ard."

Howard could see Vince shifting his silly boots shifting impatiently as Howard tried to concentrate, and he didn't appreciate the distraction. He couldn't remember if he'd had the biros laid out with the red on the left or right. He knew it didn't matter. After all, if his life had been turned upside down and inside out... But some sort of magical thinking told him that, if he could just sort the supplies, it would be a good first step. 

Vince had kept busy making a chain out of the paperclips whilst Howard worked, arguing that they were friendlier with their arms linked up. Howard considered undoing them, but Vince's daft explanation made a strange sort of sense, so he broke his own rule and hung the metal chain from the sellotree like a garland.

"That's well festive, Howard."

"So pleased you approve," Howard said under his breath. He still had a lot of work to do before everything was set to rights.

* * *

It was Saturday evening. He'd been home two weeks. That meant it'd been a month now. And he was beginning to trust the strange evenness of days--the strange calm that had settled over him now. He felt ready, finally, to talk about it with Vince, provided Vince was ready. Thus far, Vince had steered well clear of the subject.

Vince was going out for the night, as he had most nights since Howard had returned home. He didn't stay out as late as he used to, but that change went unremarked and Howard pretended he didn't notice that Vince's return from dancing was followed by his opening Howard's bedroom door for a night-time bed-check.

Vince looked fine but said he wanted to change into something even less practical than his current garb. Howard followed him to his bedroom and decided to come right out with it--ripping the plaster off in one, painful go.

"Alright Howard?"

"No. I'm bipolar, Vince. You?"

Vince averted his eyes, then turnt back toward his wardrobe. "Antarctica weren't enough for you? It'll be freezing, and I just put away my best cold weather kit..." 

Vince continued to complain and Howard waited, letting Vince run out his train of thought until it emptied its cargo before trying again. He'd known it wouldn't be easy to explain this to Mr. Sunshine and Lollies. Vince's moods spanned the gamut from petulantly sulky to blissfully joyous, but there was little there in the way of depth. It had always been up to Howard to bear the great weight of deeper and darker feelings.

But Vince wasn't without some ability to empathize. And, despite Howard's experience, he wasn't fully convinced that Vince had only a single brain cell to his name. If Vince did just have the one, how could he operate a hair blower and a brush whilst speaking? Though Vince never said anything worth hearing while he was fixing his hair, so perhaps it was possible, however unlikely. 

After much pondering on the matter, and a good deal of philosophical quandary, Howard had decided that Vince must have had his other brain cells carefully hidden away, perhaps flattened against the bottom of his brain pan, trying to stay away from the heat and chemicals that were part of Vince's daily top to bottom routine.

After a few moments of whinging about not knowing the fashions in the Arctic circle, Vince finally trailed off and pulled his head out of his overstuffed racks of clothing. He was wearing a hand-knitted scarf and a pair of overly large mittens. Howard rolled his eyes as Vince opened and closed his raised hands like a moppet master.

Vince lowered his hands and pulled off the mittens and scarf rather sheepishly. "Think I'll stick with this."

Howard cleared his throat, impatient to get on with it.

"Sorry, Howard. You were saying?" Vince batted his eyelashes and gave him a small, encouraging smile.

Howard sighed and turned toward the stairs to the shop. He started down them, hearing Vince clop along behind him. 

He stopped at Stationary Village and gestured to Vince to look at it. It was very nearly perfect. 

Howard took a desk lamp and set it up on the counter so that, when he turned it on, it flooded Stationary Village with its directed light. He picked up a pink rubber eraser from atop its pyramidal stack and held it up to Vince. "This is the human brain."

"It is not. Even I know brains are bigger than that," Vince scoffed.

"I realize that but, for the sake of this demonstration, can we pretend that it is?" He hated the pleading tone in his voice, but Vince could try even the most patient man's patience.

"It don't look like the brains in the books. Them are grey and sort of wrinkled and sqooshy like jelly."

Howard huffed out a breath. "Right, yes, of course, Vince. Verisimilitude is so important in scientific lectures involving office supplies."

"No need to b--"

"Would you prefer that I cut your head open, scoop your brains out like iced cream, and use that instead?"

Vince looked like he was torn between alarm and embarrassment, though, as usual, stubborn idiocy won out. "That'd be well disgusting. And it'd be a right mess to clean up."

Howard was truly surprised Vince wasn't more worried over what it would do to his coiffure and thought of saying so but then reconsidered, knowing how easily Vince could be distracted by discussions of his appearance. "Right, then. This, we can all agree--"

"All two of us."

"is a brain and this eras--"

"Oi, I know this one. 'This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?' You need an egg an' a frypan for that. Think we have one upstairs."

Howard shook his head and sighed, torn between irritation and an irrational warmth at Vince's enthusiasm for the advert. "Vince, just humor me--just this once--and shut up?"

Howard realized he must've smiled, as Vince smiled back at him. "All right, Howard. Lips're sealed." Vince made a show of miming turning a key over his mouth, locking it, and tossing the key over his shoulder. His pursed lips were shiny and red. His shirt was a wrinkly velvet several shades darker. His leather trousers were black. He looked like a ripe plum. Especially his arse.

Howard was surprised by the thought. The meds had done much to remove his interest in sex. Not that he wanted... Well, perhaps he did. A near-death experience did a lot to make a man honest with himself.

Howard realized he was getting distracted and looked away, back to his model. "All right. now. To continue, note that, when the light is on, Stationary Village is a sight to behold."

"One of the Seven Wonders."

Like Vince's bum. 

Howard refrained from pointing out that Vince's lips had evidently broken the lock and unsealed themselves. Instead, he continued as if uninterrupted.

"Ah, but look--a cloud rolls in. A storm approaches. Heavy weather ahead." Howard held a piece of A4 in front of the bulb, rattling it to make a storm sound and vowing that, if Vince objected, he was going to--well, he wasn't sure what, but it would be something. He could feel some real, figurative clouds beginning to darken his own mood, especially as he knew his lusts would remain unrequited.

Stationary Village was now dark and shadowed. The sellotape tree looked like a twisted claw, and the small, pink eraser looked like it might be run over by the green stapler at any moment.

Howard stared down at it, caught up, for a moment, in the drama he'd staged. Vince, too, seemed to be finally taking this seriously.

Howard flicked the lamp switch off and the Village got even darker as his own body cast a long shadow over it.

"That's it, then."

"What's what when?"

Howard brought his hand to his wrist, but there was no bracelet to turn, so he gripped his own wrist tightly, feeling his pulse beating in his wrist and fingertips. He dug his fingernails into the thin flesh there, stopping just before he broke the skin.

"Vince, a few days back, you asked me why I was taking so many pills. And this is why." Howard said it slowly, quietly, hoping against hope that somehow the analogy would penetrate the layers of lacquered, black hair and sink in.

The shop was empty. Naboo and Bollo were off somewhere very likely getting high on some other planet. And, though the window outside the shop showed potential customers walking past Nabootique, none opened the door, though it was prime time for the cool crowd to begin hitting the trendy restaurants.

"You saying you're taking pills because it might rain?" Vince's eyebrows drew together--something they rarely did, as Vince was afraid of getting wrinkles.

"Yes, Vince. The doctor suggested a brolly might do, but I insisted on a daily regimen of brain-altering chemicals."

Vince frowned--another expression he generally avoided. "Sorry, Howard. I know I'm missing something, but I just don't see why your taking drugs when you won't take them at parties or--"

"Vince, I'm trying to tell you. There's something wrong with my brain. Bipolar Disorder."

Vince shut his eyes and shook his head. "Ain't nothing wrong with your brain, Howard. I'm the one who can't do Maths or spell proper or--"

"It's a mood disorder, Vince, not a learning disorder." His voice came out more harshly than he meant it to. Vince opened his eyes. His lashes sparkled.

"You saying I'm learning disordered?"

"Yes. You're generally disorderly, Vince. Not to mention very dyslexic and a mess with numbers. And that is why Howard T. J. Moon, Bipolar Maverick and Mood Spanner, is still the brains of this operation."

Vince offered him a shaky smile. "We only ever 'ad the one brain between us. Now you saying yours ain't perfect?"

Vince began chewing his lower lip. He blinked too many times in succession and took a hitching breath.

Howard walked around the table until he was able to pat Vince's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting way. But Vince turned his body and was suddenly hugging Howard, burying his face in Howard's shirt. Vince said something, but the words were muffled and lost.

Howard put his arms up and around Vince, reluctantly returning the embrace. He looked out toward the shop windows. The pedestrian crowd had thinned from a trickle to a couple of vagrants who lived on the alleyways by the shops. Some of those people talked to themselves or sat on the ground in rags, rocking to music only they could hear. How easily could he have turned into one of those people?

Looney Howard, they'd call him. Or Howard "the Loon" Moon. Vince might walk by him someday, not really see him, and give him a pink, furry parka to sleep under.

Before he had his head on straight in hospital, he'd told the doctors about the Jewel of Mantumbaa, the talking gorilla, the crack fox and even Old Gregg. He must've sounded insane. A roommate who dressed like Joan Jett and talked to snakes and bears? Utter bollocks.

But he'd been disorientated. The Thames had been very dark and very cold. He'd been blackout drunk when he went in. The paramedic told him he was likely unconscious as soon as or not long after hitting the water, and, by the time he was rescued and pulled to shore, he was blue and shivering. 

He'd coughed up water and started to cry. He'd cried all the way to hospital where they monitored him overnight in A&E. 

He woke up in the ward reserved for the men who pissed their pants without shame and the men who slumped over on their cots with blank, unshaven faces, their untied hospital gowns showing more of their backsides than Howard was comfortable seeing. An old geezer with dementia was struggling with security guards whilst shouting about the evils of Thatcher.

It was a humbling experience, indeed, and one he didn't plan to ever share with Vince, whose experience with the harsh realities of adulthood had led him to reject it entirely in favor of mirrorball suits, drainpipe trousers, and electronica.

A shiver ran through Vince, as if he sensed Howard's thoughts, and, mindful of the Open sign still on the shop door, he kept one eye on the street as he tightened his hold on Vince until the little man's tears stopped and his breathing evened out to normal.

And even then, he didn't let go.

* * *

Eventually, it was Vince that pulled away. "Should close up shop, yeah?"

Howard let him go, watching as Vince turned the sign to Closed and turned off the shop lights. Howard turned off the rest of the interior lamps and then leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his tear-dampened shirt.

Vince locked up and then leaned back against the closed door.

Warily, they stood and watched each other across the darkened shop. Then Vince lifted his sharp chin and gestured at the stairs. Howard let him pass and followed him up in silence.

But Vince stopped at top, turning around to face Howard and blocking his way. Howard had to look up at him from the top stair.

"You're not going to do it again."

It didn't sound like a question and Howard resisted the urge to ask, "Do what?"

'It" would, if he could at all help it, remain unspoken, as would Howard's two weeks in hospital.

The only thing Vince knew was that Howard had returned with a crap crab advert haunting him and wearing the same clothing he'd left in, minus the hat, which had washed away.

Naboo had given him a stern, disapproving look and mouthed, "ballbag" at him.

Vince hadn't moved and Howard realized he was waiting for an answer. "Look, Little Man, I've no plans to leave Dalston in hopes of furthering my less than illustrious acting career."

"Or for any other reason. Like furthering your writing career or whatever bollocks-idea you think of next. Least not without me."

"Right you are, Sir. no leaving Dalston." Howard took a tentative step up, but Vince didn't move.

"Say it, Howard. The whole thing."

Howard cleared his throat, trying to ignore the tight, thick feeling that told him he might cry again. "I just did."

"I want... " Vince took a sharp breath. "I want you to say the whole thing. Make a promise."

"The whole thing?" Howard scratched at his chin, buying time. The whole thing suddenly seemed quite large. A promise seemed impossible. He and Vince had always operated by unspoken rules. There had never been oaths of loyalty between them. He'd always seen Vince as too fickle for such declarations. Vince was too easily distracted by shiny things and bright prospects, and Howard reckoned that, with time, Vince would realise that Howard was only holding him back.

"All right, Howard?"

"Yes, yes. I'm thinking."Howard held a hand up. "Patience, Little Man." He took a steadying breath. "Right. I, Howard T.J. Moon promise that, henceforth, I'll be staying on in Dalston."

"With Vince Noir. Say it. Swear to it."

"I suppose next you'll be asking me to sign in blood." 

"That's well disgusting. Just swear on it an' I'll believe it."

"Right, then. I, Howard T.J. Moon, being of unsound mind and unfit body, do solemnly swear to stay on in Dalston with Vince Noir, or, if I must travel, I'll take Vince Noir with me, provided he can limit his luggage to two bags or else squeeze into one of mine."

Vince didn't crack a grin. "You ain't taking this seriously, Howard."

"I am." 

"Right you are. This is serious business. Alright, now, if I were to leave Dalston, what'll you do?"

Howard shifted from one foot to the other, disturbed by the intensity in Vince's eyes. "I... I don't know?"

Vince frowned.

"I'll wait here till you return?"

Howard waited for Vince to tell him or let him go, but Vince continued to block his way. Howard tried to think of what Vince wanted him to say.

At last, he gave up. "See here. I'm sorry I don't know--"

"You bloody well should be. You owe me an apology." Vince's hands were on his hips.

Howard crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not apologizing, you little tit. I have nothing to apologize for."

Vince snorted. "And you think I do? You think it's all on me?"

Howard felt his cheeks flush with shame, or anger, or some combination of those. Was Vince honestly going to claim innocence? "You, Sir, tossed me aside for a pair of undersized drainpipes."

Vince's mouth was opened and what came out was an unintelligible curse, followed by, "An' you said it was love an' then left me for a bird you 'ardly knew." Vince stuck a finger out and pointed it at Howard's chest, poking at him on the last word.

"Don't touch me, Sir."

"I'll touch you if I want to touch you, an' I'll kiss you when I want ta kiss you. You ain't in charge here, arsehole." Vince had raised his voice and begun to shout, and when he poked Howard again, it was hard enough to push him backwards. 

Howard felt the stair edge slip away and shot a hand out for the bannister to steady himself. "You think you're in charge, Sonny Jimminy? You've the attention span of a bloody peahen."

"And you--

"You left me for a cape, Supertit! So don't you think you can take the higher ground with me."

Vince's pale face was flushed an unattractive angry red. "I have the higher ground, you great Northern cunt. And I never--I never did--what you did." 

Vince was blinking and drew back his pointing finger to swipe at his eyes. He was breathing hard again, his breath turning to sobs he didn't seem to notice as he kept shouting. "And if you ever--ever--even think about doing something that foolish again, I'll bloody well kill you myself."

"Vince--"

"NO! I mean it. I'll cut you up into so many beige pieces they won't be able to put your wide-wale, corduroy arse back together with a sewing machine, nevermind a bunch of pills."

Vince took a deep breath and let it out slowly. And then he turned his back on Howard around and stalked to his bedroom, one hand messily running through his hair.

Howard expected him to slam the door behind him, but Vince left it ajar, and Howard climbed the last stair and entered Vince's room with no small hesitation. "Vince?"

Vince had his back to Howard. "Don't. Don't say anything. I'm really furious--and I might say something I'll regret."

"I'm sorry. Vince, I--"

"Howard, I'm warning you. Just shut up, take your dose like a good lad, and go to bed. I'm sure it won't last the night. After all, I've the attention span of a peahen. By tomorrow I'll have forgot why I was cross."

Howard sighed and went to the en suite bathroom. The reversal of their roles was disconcerting. It had always been Howard Moon's responsibility to ensure Vince got enough sleep, ate enough food (that wasn't candy), and, the one time he'd come down with a very bad case of flu, it had been Howard who held back his fluffy hair as he emptied his belly into the toilet. 

Even when they were children, though Vince might've seen to it that Howard had friends--or at least the illusion of friends--it had been Howard who cleaned Vince's skinned knees and plastered his wounds and kept him from scratching his mosquito bites with the warning that it would leave scars on his arms and legs.

Howard thought back to those days with a kind of awe.

He counted out and swallowed his pills, taking some calm from the ritual. Then he took a piss and washed his hands. He avoided his own reflection in the mirror as he cleaned his teeth.

He came back into the bedroom to find that Vince had skinned off his tight leather trousers, pulled off his velvet shirt, and stood clad only in a pair of pants that, from the pale pink colour and delicate pink bow, might have come from ladies lingerie. Vince's shiny boots stood beside him, socks stuffed into their tops.

Howard licked his lips nervously. His mouth had gone dry and he was trying to meet Vince's wide eyes, though his eyes were drawn downward to trace the line of Vince's neck, to the hollow above which a small patch of wiry black hair grew. Vince usually removed that hair, presumably in a bid to look younger, but, as he had left it, Howard decided that he liked it very much. 

Vince's chest wasn't very muscled--Vince was averse to taking exercise for fear of building up muscles, as he had in his legs. That blasted band's demands had touched a sore spot for Vince. Vince had always complained that his legs were thicker than he'd like, and he'd first begun wearing those pointy, heeled boots because he thought they made his legs appear slimmer. Howard had told him often enough that there was no need to gild the lily, but Vince just dismissed him. Vince not only gilded it, he then dipped it in platinum, put it in a Tiffany box, and put a ribbon on his head. Howard mocked him, but Vince said that Howard had enviably slim pins, a massive brain, and no idea of the struggle.

Howard didn't. He'd always thought Vince had it easy. Howard had to rely on his sharp wit and extensive knowledge of jazz to attract a mate, and, thus far, that hadn't worked out all that well.

Now, seeing so much of Vince--and for a small man, there was a lot to see--Howard reminded himself that he'd just admitted that his brain--so long his best feature in Vince's eyes--was abnormal, flawed, broken.

"Howard, look here...."

Howard nodded. He was trying very hard not to look, but it was easier than meeting Vince's eyes.

A line of hair bisected Vince, vertically, and Howard saw how neatly it broadened to more hair over Vince's belly. Over the years, Vince's belly had varied a bit, softening one year, then, when Vince got in a panic over another year passing, going hollow. At present, it was quite flat but not concave. He was well aware his own body was everything Vince feared becoming, though he did his best to not mind that his base attraction was not returned in kind.

Vince made a sound at the back of his throat and Howard looked up again, meeting Vince's wide, blue eyes.

Vince shifted from one foot to another. He had a small smile on his face. "I didn't mean look at me. I mean--I don't--you may look, if you like, only it's nothing new, is it?"

"The pants are new?" Howard shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, feeling conspicuously overdressed and, per usual, awkward and ungainly.

Vince glanced down as if he'd forgot what he was wearing. "Yeah, these are new. I thought I'd try something different." 

Strangely enough, Vince looked unsure.

"It suits you," Howard admitted.

"Not too much, is it? With the bow?"

Howard made as if to look at the bow, though he couldn't help but stare at the package beneath it. "It's very...."

Vince's smile broadened a bit. "Yeah?"

Howard nodded. 

"Well, you--" Vince brought his hand down over his chest to settle on his belly. "Suppose on the outside, you're the same as well. Tall, broad, handsome. A Northern beauty well-hidden in ugly togs. Still, not so sure about the inside. That's what has me worried."

"You don't think I'm handsome."

"Just a bit, yeah, I do. You're... Only you--what you did." Vince cleared his throat. "What you did, leaving, made me think you don't know what I think of you. You don't know what it--what I felt." Vince was no longer smiling. "See, I got this cheque in the post only a couple of days after you'd left. So, I tried phoning you to ask why it was signed to me, and to see you'd found a place to stay, and to ask--to tell you to come home."

"You--"

"Only you didn't answer. Then, some other bloke rung right back and asked, did I lose a cell phone? Only he'd found it in a pub. Then, funny thing--I thought back to how a few night's back I saw on the Telly where some idiot got himself nearly drowned in the Thames, no identification on him, and, at the time, I'd got to thinking, how awful must a bloke feel life is to take a swim like that?"

"Pretty awful, I imagine," Howard managed to squeeze out. His voice wasn't working and it came out a hoarse whisper.

Vince nodded. "Imagined. Yeah. Hopeless. Unloved. That's what I reckoned. See, that's what it feels like phoning that sodding director and hearing you'd never left London, then phoning the police saying you think yer best mate's gone missing, an'--only he might be the bloke what got rescued, only you don't know. Probably it's not, as--as why'd he do that?"

Vince bit down on his upper lip and inhaled loudly. Tears had begun rolling down his cheeks, blurring his makeup.

Howard opened his mouth to say something, but no words made it past the knot in his throat.

"Hospital--hospital was nice enough, only they couldn't say you were there or not or anything useful. Said only family could visit, so... I didn't know what to say or do next. Then I went in person and tried chatting up the nurses till I found one who liked me well enough to listen, and I was honest--I told her I wasn't looking to pull. I was in love with the bloke what tried to kill himself, assuming that bloke was you. I showed her a picture and she said it was you, only even then, she said she couldn't let me in, but she could deliver a message. Only I was too cross to write something, so I--b-brought you pyjamas, so you wouldn't have your bum hanging out of the hospital gown." Vince swiped at his eyes and took several more sobbing breaths. "Reckon there's things a mate can't fix, yeah? But pyjamas are nice."

Howard covered his mouth with his hand and shut his eyes. When he could speak again, after he'd done kicking his own arse, he'd need to find some way to apologise for not thinking about Vince, which was a new thing, as he sometimes thought he'd spent his whole life thinking about Vince.

Only he'd not really gone beyond the thought that Vince didn't need him and, further, was best off without him. He didn't think to ask himself, what if Vince didn't agree. In his defense, it took all of those two weeks in hospital to get a clear head. He'd not even questioned the crisp, new pyjamas, thinking they'd come from a charity. Depression had made him well stupid. Vince was in love with him?

Vince spoke again, forcing Howard to open his eyes and face him. "Howard, I just need to know what to expect, like, if the pills don't do the trick. What--what should I do?"

Howard shrugged. "I don't know. I've never...You know me. You've seen how I get. If the pills work...."

Vince frowned. "If. Thought I knew you. Don't know what I've been seeing, yeah? Know you get dark--melancholy. Thought it was just a Howard thing."

"To some extent it is. Sometimes, I'm cross. Short-tempered. Bitter. Or just tired. Sometimes it's all that but... Churchill called it his Black Dog. For me, it's like a heavy, dark, storm cloud, so dark I can't see through it. I'm blind. I can't even see you properly."

"Christy, and I thought I got sad."

"You do."

"Only not like that. No, I get it. Only for you, the clouds blow away and--what happens next? You normal then?

"Sometimes yes. Nearly normal. For a time. Or... sometimes it goes the other way, and the dark cloud blows away only... There's no sunshine. No clarity. It's me, only faster, and with poorer judgment."

"Have I seen that?"

Howard nodded. "Yes. When I rearranged your clothing by colour?"

Vince's reddened eyes narrowed. "Looked like a rainbow threw up. It took a week to set it to rights again."

"And you--you asked, 'What the hell were you thinking, touching my things?'"

Vince nodded, slowly. "You got cross, said you were trying to help, and I told you to help your own damned self, my togs were off limits, and you said--you...." Vince actually chuckled, remembering.

Howard agreed that, though funny now, it was not one of his finer moments. "I said, I did my clothing first before tackling yours. And you came and looked at my stuff and said it looked like those photos of the Grand Canyon at sunset, with the layers of browns and rusts and cream, and it still didn't explain why I'd done it."

"It was well mental. I--Christy, that wasn't--" Vince's cheeks went pink.

"It was, Vince. Mental. That's the point. Though in that case, I found the results were soothing, and I might have done it in any case, had I thought of it. And there was no harm done. That's not always the case."

Vince seemed to think about that. Howard could see his mind cogs grinding away. "I went off for the weekend and came back and the walls were all cafe o'lait."

"Mushroom," Howard corrected. He'd really liked the colour. He'd thought of doing the whole flat in it, but had run out of time. Had he another few days, he might not have stopped at the walls. He could vaguely remember thinking of doing over the furniture in the same colour.

"Christy, so mushroom soup walls, eh?"

"I was manic. Wound up. It's like when you get a notion to do something, only you think, 'Is this really a good idea? Is it practical? Is it too expensive? Will anyone else appreciate my efforts?' Only what if you get an idea and don't think all of that. You just do it."

Vince frowned. "But you're happy, doing it?" 

Howard sighed. "No. Not happy. Not sad. Morelike, picture you, all full of sugar and coffee, strapped to a bicycle, going down the steepest, longest hill you can imagine. At midday, in heavy traffic."

Vince shuddered and wrapped his thin arms around himself. "Christy, that's tonight's nightmare, love. Ta for that."

"Sorry."

"It's alright. Just let's not talk about clowns."

For a few moments, they were silent.

Then Howard thought to add, "It could be worse. I don't hear voices. I don't see things that aren't there." Like alien, dickless, cuntless shamans, bubblegum hoovers, talking gorillas, jazz spirits, mermen with "downstairs mixups," and the like. Those were apparently real. Though there were days he was left to wonder.

"Hang on. So when you fucked up my music you were a maniac?"

Howard winced. "Manic. Please. Maniacs are dangerous. Old Gregg is a maniac. But no, the music--that was just revenge for you hiding my hats under your bed."

"Oh. Sorry. So you were feeling alright then?" Vince smiled softly. "Revenge is something I can understand."

"Yeah, well, I certainly enjoyed the look on your face when you thought I'd erased your collection of bootlegs."

"Sadist is what you are."

Howard sighed. "You would think that. Only I wasn't happy you were unhappy. I was happy I'd been cleverer than you."

Vince rolled his eyes. "You're always cleverer than me, love."

Howard shook his head. "When I decided to become a Bonsai grower--that was one of those impulsive ideas gone wrong."

"Yeah. All them ugly little trees with their limbs wired up. Looked like you were torturing them. Dunno what you were thinking."

"I really can't even remember." Howard smiled. That one was an unusually expensive impulse, but Vince's reaction had been amusing. Vince had waited until he was out and then clipped off all the wires. When Howard demanded an explanation, he said very innocently, and with complete sincerity, said, "I freed the trees! They don't want to be in pots, all twisted up and stunted."

Howard had stared at him and said, "You're the one that's potted and stunted." 

In retrospect, it was very nearly a metaphor for their lives. However much Howard played at being a Man of Action, he'd never really sought out adventure. Even when manic, he craved order--a forest of trees, small and under his control. And Vince--he was entirely sane, yet he was chaos, incarnate. He was entropy, but consistently so, and without meaning any harm by it. Like nature itself, really, only with more glitter and rainbows.

And in the end, he hadn't the energy to fix the trees, and Vince had seen that but didn't understand it, yet he'd still taken it upon himself to buy new wire and a book on bonsai, and he'd redone the lot of them. They'd ended up giving them as Christmas gifts to everyone they knew. So it hadn't been a complete loss.

"So, with the pills you take, you're not going up or down anymore but just staying normal?"

"Yes. That's the idea. And there are certain side effects. Sexual ones."

"Oh." Vince frowned. "Then you can't, erm, get happy?"

Howard kept eye contact as he said, "I'm happy now, actually. One might even say I'm gay. I just might take a bit longer to... Respond."

"Resp...oh. Oh. But you can, if...."

Howard shrugged. "I haven't tried. But I feel... Optimistic."

If he had to explain it, he'd likely say it was the pink bow that pushed it over the edge.

Vince snorted. "I'm a teary-eyed shambles in girlie panties, and you--you nearly drowned. What even is this?"

Howard let his gaze drop to take in Vince's body once again before again meeting Vince's eyes. 

"I suppose I really do like the bow."

 

* * *

 

It was late morning and Howard heard the patter of hard rain on the roof. Outside, the skies looked grey and foreboding. "It's raining."

Vince looked out the window and frowned. "Your name is Howard T. J. Moon. It's Autumn and you're in Dalston in bloody England. Of course it's raining. It's always raining."

"Hmm."

Vince turned toward him, leaning up on one arm to do so. "And how's the weather in Stationary Village?"

Vince's voice sounded serious and concerned, but his lips were quirked up in a grin. As codes went, it was fairly subtle. As Howard gave up trying to hide it, Vince got better at tracking it, and now he hardly ever need ask. Though he sometimes still did ask, and Howard saw that Vince listened carefully to each answer.

Howard made as if to give the question considerable thought, though the answer was easy and reflected in their mutual state of deshabille. Vince's hair was a punk rock shambles, though the rest of him held considerable appeal in his rumpled, sleep-warm naked state. Howard's own body felt achy in strange places and wobbly in others, but the vast majority of his body was ready to have another go.

"Today's weather looks to be sunny and warm, with a chance of--"

"Orgasm?"

Howard grinned. "Hope you brought your rubbers, love. Looks to be a wet one."

Vince laughed and dove under the duvet, and Howard joined him, and soon enough, there was nought but a full moon hovering in the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are loved. Comments are treasured!


End file.
